


Sleep Is A Luxury I Can't Afford

by MissMoochy



Series: MissMoochy's FebuWhump 2021 Oneshots [6]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Marvel
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, FebuWhump2021, Gen, Insomnia, POV Foggy Nelson, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:46:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29252448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMoochy/pseuds/MissMoochy
Summary: FebuWhump 2021 Day 6: [Insomnia]Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt: [Insomnia]Matt keeps Foggy up most nights. He doesn't mean to.
Relationships: Matt Murdock & Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Series: MissMoochy's FebuWhump 2021 Oneshots [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136714
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Sleep Is A Luxury I Can't Afford

He glances at his phone screen just to check the time. That brief flash of light stings his eyes. When he looks away, he sees coloured splodges dancing in his vision.

He’s cracking up. Sitting in his bed. His legs are tangled in a thick wad of sheets and blankets like he’s some grotesque grub that’s attempting to emerge from the cocoon. There’s one pillow wedged under his back, and the other slipped down the space between the bed’s railings, it’s a limp white shape between thin metal bars and wall. When he rubs his bleary eyes with his fingers, his face feels sweaty and greasy. Too much movement in the night, tossing and turning. Kicking his blankets off his legs, he lies there, fat and wide as a seal. His t-shirt has ridden up at the back, and his belly hangs over the elastic waistband of his pyjama pants. He makes no move to fix it.

His eyes have walked across the ceiling a million times. Examining cracks in the plaster, a small cobweb in the corner. The spider that hunkers down in the grey mass is nothing more than a tiny black shape. He hadn’t been able to see it, at first. It was too dark. But then, his eyes eventually adjusted to the dark. And now dawn is creeping in, a pale blue light filtering through the blinds.

He read a book once, about vampires. There was a story where some woman got bitten by a vampire, but here’s the clincher: she didn’t realise she had turned. Her nonexistent appetite apparently raised no red flags. Her skin became more sensitive. She lay in bed and when the morning light came in, it obliterated her. She turned to dust on her bed. Foggy feels a bit like that. He eyes the dawn light with apprehension. He feels like if it touches his skin, he could burst into flame. He feels like some undead creature, maybe not something as badass as a vampire, but something loathsome and alone, an aberration. His body is aching with exhaustion, his eyes feel too heavy for his head. Like marble eyes in the face of a porcelain doll. When he blinks, his vision blurs.

He can’t seem to sleep right, these days. Just knowing that Matt is out there in the night, risking his life. All on his own. He should feel more relieved that Matt wears an actual fighting outfit now, red-and-black kevlar, designed to resist bullets and knives. But Matt’s not invulnerable. He’s a human being, not some vengeful god unleashing justice on the mortals. He’s a man in a stupid outfit, backflipping and jumping off buildings and God knows what else. And it’s killing him. It is. Slowly but surely. He limps, most days. Hides his injuries under bandages and poorly-applied concealer. Foggy supposes he should be grateful that at least he’s not being kept in the dark anymore. It took a long time to forgive him for keeping such a significant secret. He _aches_ when he thinks of Matt keeping that secret, alone and in pain. Foggy loves being somebody Matt can rely on, but it comes at a cost. The blood is running to his brain, his head is too low on the bed. He retrieves the pillow from under his back and slips it under his head.

Matt visits him most nights. It’s on his way home from patrol. He climbs up on Foggy’s fire escape and knocks softly on the window. Loud enough to wake him, but not loud enough to upset the neighbours.

Foggy is usually awake when this happens, so he opens the window and helps Matt crawl in. Sometimes, Matt is bleeding, his white teeth stained red, but other nights, he’s relatively unscathed. Matt lies on Foggy’s bed with him, shoulder-to-shoulder, and recounts his night. Who he fought, where he went. He knows it’s important that Foggy be kept in the loop. And Foggy listens, turns his head so he can see Matt’s profile reflected in the moonlight. His nose and jaw are uncovered by the cowl. They’re like two tiny islands of Matt Murdock, surrounded by that awful blood-red cowl. He wishes he could rip it off him. Reach inside Matt’s chest cavity and pull out strands of Daredevil, gut him until all that’s left is his dorky pal from college.

The alarm clock rings. It’s 7:00 AM. Foggy sighs. Rolls out of bed and shuffles stiffly into the bathroom. Monday morning. Got to get ready for work.


End file.
